Through Other Eyes
by Splintered Star
Summary: Because, despite appearances, not everyone these kids met was a psychopath, Egyptian or otherwise. Some were just normal people, people outside the battles they fought. Ficlets, from the point of views of people who didn't know what was truly going on.


"Through Other Eyes"

Because, despite appearances, not everyone these kids met was a psychopath, Egyptian or otherwise. Some were just normal people.

Ficletish, manga-based, lots of ocs, minor characters that have probably been forgotten about (Guide: If someone's named, then they're canonical), and occasional references to Egyptian mythology. Oh, and a spoilers for just about everything.

Note: Ficlets are in reverse-chronological order.

(start)

Seto Kaiba had millions of fans. Some of them loved his skill at games, some loved his appearance, some loved his obvious brilliance, and some all of these and more. To many of them, he was coolness in human form – especially the young boys who grew up playing his games, but were too young to remember or care about what his company did before.

For all his popularity, he rarely had press conferences or took chances to mingle with his fans – he did enough to look proper, but barely, and it was clear that he didn't look forward to it. But his fans did, every one of them.

There was one boy who perhaps looked forward to it most of all, young and enthusiastic about the game. He was so excited – he was going to a special press conference to announce the new tournament, and he would have a chance to met Kaiba himself! Not much of a chance, but a chance nonetheless and it was enough.

He had stood in line for _hours_ to get his ticket, and spent almost twice as long as he normally did on his appearance. He couldn't look stupid, not when Kaiba could see him!

Finally – _finally!_ – he was there. He was crowded by reporters and guards and the lucky others who had bought the tickets like he did. He fought to get to the front, to get close to Kaiba, close enough to…well, maybe not touch, but just _breathing_ _his air_ would have to be cool. He stared at Kaiba, his idol, in awe.

Kaiba was answering any questions thrown to him by the reporters or the crowd, doing demonstrations of his new duel disk, and explaining the tournament, all without missing a question or his focus. There were reasons that the boy idolized Seto Kaiba – he was focused, determined, brilliant and powerful. Plus there was an indefinable aura of coolness to him, something either caused or strengthened by the confidence he oozed. He was confident, he was rich, all the girls wanted him, and he got to make games all day.

He was a kid's _dream_.

The boy just stared at Kaiba for a while, watching him and that awesome trench coat, the one his mother wouldn't let him buy, while a mantra of "This is the coolest day of my LIFE!" played in his mind.

And then everything turned backwards. There was a crash, shouting and shoving, and before the boy entirely knew what was going on, he was yanked up by his collar and there was something cold and hard pressed against his head.

He squirmed, but whoever was holding him pressed the thing against his head a bit harder and shouted for him to shut up. Someone else –the leader?–walked up to Kaiba and started listing demands. Were they the gangsters his mother had heard about on the news?

The boy was terrified and his collar was getting tight, so he didn't hear most of the demands, but he thought he heard something about Kaiba Corp. weapons and plans in there. If he could breath he would have laughed – everyone knew Kaiba Corp. made games, not weapons.

Kaiba, calm as ever, set his duel disk down on a nearby table and turned to the leader, raising an eyebrow. The boy struggled to hear what he said – thankfully, the mike was still on.

"Oh, I heard your contact. It wasn't worth my time." Kaiba ignored the man's shocked look. "I don't make weapons. If you want those you can buy guns in China. Well," Kaiba paused to smirk, ever confident and mocking, "You might want to get pea shooters, so that you won't kill yourselves by accident."

The leader bristled, angry, and said loud enough for everyone to hear,

"You did make weapons, and good ones. We want those." He grinned lecherously. "But since you won't give them to us, we're here to punish you. Make you a lesson, see."

Kaiba raised an eyebrow, replying.

"My adopted father," He seemed to put emphasis on the word, "made weapons. I make games."

But the leader laughed back,

"Sure. I've heard some of the things you did when you first took over. Was it really suicide?" The leader grinned like he knew a secret. "Besides, you'll do anything for the right price, I'm sure."

Kaiba shrugged, still totally relaxed. The boy couldn't understand how.

"You heard wrong and you assumed wrong. Your stupidity is not my fault."

The leader scowled, and then gave an order to kill hostages. Then he pulled his own gun and pointed it at Kaiba.

The boy panicked. Was he going to die? He couldn't, he wouldn't, he…it couldn't…

Kaiba gave an almost unnoticeable movement, and his guards leapt into action, while Kaiba himself took out the leader with a single kick to the stomach.

The next few minutes were something of a blur. The police arrived, the guards checked everyone for injuries – no one was really hurt, thank god – and Kaiba made arrangements, keeping one foot on the leader's throat until the police took him. Then he announced,

"Due to today's events the rest of the proceedings are canceled. Don't worry, it will be continued on a later date and no one will have to repurchase passes or anything else. Please remain long enough for the police to gather the information needed."

The boy lingered for a few as everyone else left, wanting a chance to talk to him, a chance to thank him. But a guard herded him out, but that was okay because he would go to the next one.

Making games for a living, being richer than the rest of the country combined, knowing martial arts and dealing with bloodthirsty gangsters with confidence and a smirk.

Oh yeah. Kaiba was _cool_.

(0)

Jonouchi had started as the dog that was under the underdog, the duelist not even a fool would bet on. But now he was a winner. A champion. A punk made good.

There were some that idolized him – after all, almost everyone loves an underdog, because somewhere deep inside most people it eases them. If someone like him can make it, so can they.

There were some that hated him. Some were angry – some no-good punk is getting the spot someone better, more _proper_, should have! – and some were simply jealous of him and his luck.

Hirutani wasn't sure which of the second he was, but as he sat on his beat-up couch and smoked expensive foreign cigars, he knew he was fucking pissed off.

He and Jou had been a hell of team. They could take on anyone, any group. But then that stupid brat found his fucking friends, and they had separated. And then he refused to come back, even when Hirutani had demanded twice – and no one refused Hirutani! And now he was some sort of public idol, popular and famous and shit, while his old boss lived in the bad side of Domino and led his gang of brats.

Hirunati never wondered which of them had been right.

(0)

The other girls admired the models, the actresses; all the pretty women who stood around doing nothing but being lusted after. No brains, but big wallets and big bust lines. They wanted to be those women, admired and worshiped and on a million billboards. And they always teased her, the one who didn't.

She didn't care. She wanted to be Mai Kajuka.

Mai was smart and sexy and confident, a Master Duelist, the only successful woman. Mai fought against the best – Yuugi himself! – and she usually won. Mai didn't need anyone, not a boyfriend, not a husband, not a father to rescue her or make things easy for her. She did things on her own strength. She proved that women weren't weaker and didn't need men to save them. Yeah, rumors of romance flew about her and other duelists – usually Yuugi or his second, that Jouno…something guy – but that was only because they couldn't handle that she could do it on her own. Because they were afraid that she was better than them, so they wanted her to settle down and stop being threatening.

She knew that most people saw Mai as a whore or a gold digger or an uppity brat.

It didn't matter. To her, Mai was a heroine.

(0)

Whenever he worked with Isis Ishtar – that archeologist from Egypt – he couldn't shake the feeling that she knew. What she supposedly knew he couldn't tell, but she knew something, knew too much.

She always knew too much.

She was too young to know all she did about Egypt. She knew histories, pharaohs, dynasties – things no one spoke about outside of archeology. And yet she knew – she, a girl barely full grown – more than those who had been in the craft for years.

He wasn't sure how she knew – she passed it off with a knowing smile as simply that she had studied for years, but that didn't add up. There were things that had only come up in the most advanced circles with in that past few years. There were things the most advanced circles didn't even know.

It didn't add up.

She was standing across from him, doing a private exposition of her new findings – a few tablets of dubious meaning, burial shrouds from the middle kingdom, and supposedly a new mummy.

She finished, and opened the floor for questions. He spoke up, and her eyes fell on him a few moments before he spoke.

"How do we know-"

She interrupted – who did this girl think she was? – with a smile and,

"I assure you, all of the artifacts have been verified by the Egyptian Government and leading Egyptologists."

He blinked – how did she know his question? He wasn't that obvious, was he?

The rest of the questions proceeded like that – someone would get half way through a sentence and she would answer whatever they didn't have the chance to ask.

It was creepy.

He left afterwards, but she smiled sadly at him as he left, and he was unsettled the rest of the night. But he managed to put it out of his mind as he drove home, right until the time the other car crashed into his and his ribcage crumpled. His last thoughts, as everything started going dark, were,

"She knew."

(0)

Mokuba was a sweet kid.

It was a pity he was stuck with the brother he had – Seto was such a bad influence on him. He was always so nice in school – kinda quiet, yeah, but nice and smart and popular. But all that business with the company couldn't have been good for him – he was only eleven! His brother probably forced him to help out.

His teachers always felt sorry for him, in a way. That was no way to spend a childhood, working for god knows how long on business. They tried to get him to come out of his shell, do things with the other kids after school, maybe join a team or something, but he never did. Said he had to help with his brother's company. It was heartwarming, in a sad way.

Mokuba loved his brother, though no one was sure why. Why love someone who didn't seem to care about you? Who threw away everything for his business? For whom you got kidnapped twice a year? Who was, quite simply, a jerk?

But Mokuba always talked so glowingly about his brother, so lovingly. Said he was loyal and kind and protective. People told him that his brother was mean, and cruel, and nasty, but he just shook his head and said, no, you don't understand him.

No one had the heart to tell him he was the one that didn't understand.

Mokuba was a sweet kid, sure. But he was an idiot with his brother.

(0)

It was after he came home from that tournament on the Island that Yuugi's mother noticed something…different about her son.

It wasn't anything she thought was serious or anything, and she supposed he was different in a way, with the championship and all, but still. She wondered, and she worried.

Really, it had started before that. Long before. When he became friends with those punks she would have disapproved of, if they hadn't been his first friends other than Anzu. When he started going out after school more, sometimes late into the night. When he finished that necklace puzzle of Jiichan's.

She wasn't surprised it came back to Jiichan. Most things did.

He was sitting in the living room with his friends – Jounouchi, Honda, Anzu, and that shy one, Bakura. They were laughing over some new game that Jiichan had brought in. She was watching them – she didn't know if they knew it. She hoped not. It was wrong to spy on her son, she knew, but she wanted to see how he acted.

She looked at Yuugi, searching for differences. He was beating Jounouchi at the game easily, though no one looked surprised or even annoyed – he had apparently inherited his grandfather's gaming skill. He had those extra blond streaks in his hair that he had started wearing, and odd tints of red in his eyes. His mother was struck with a sudden thought,

"This isn't my son."

The thought was so ridiculous, so unbelievable that she didn't know where it came from. Of course it was her son. Yes, he was happier, more out-going and had friends over, but just because he was different didn't mean he wasn't the same person. Who else would it be?

She looked at him again, noticing the slight shades of arrogance in his laugh, the unshakable confidence that flowed out of every movement, the feeling of…power in him. The traits she never would have associated with her son before.

Then she shook her head and went back into the kitchen.

Of course it was her son.

(0)

Pegasus J. Crawford was an odd man. Born rich, and then groom and widower so quickly – most people thought he had gone a little bit crazy after his wife's death, what with all the travel and the obsession with the afterlife and the golden eye and all. Just another spoiled rich kid who couldn't handle real pain.

But none could deny he was a genius, so they didn't object.

His business partners always had a shrug and a long-suffering look after meetings – he was unavoidably crazy, they said (Cartoons! He interrupted meetings for _cartoons_!), but he was rich and he was smart and he knew how to sell. Or at least so his numbers said.

There was no reason for Duel Monsters to catch on like it did. It was just another card game, just like the millions of others, and obviously based off of half of them, too. It should have been a blip in the radar, a news item on the last page to fill space, another rich kid who tried to make their own way and failed.

But they couldn't sell enough of the stuff.

When asked in a million interviews – the man was a born showman, born for the spotlight– what the secret of his success was, he just laughed and said that perhaps, the world had been waiting for Duel Monsters. Maybe it was destiny. And everyone laughed, because that was such a fitting answer, just the right mix of arrogance and deflection and movie-drama.

He should have been an actor, really.

He held tournaments, and participated in them, and that was all perfectly normal. Yeah, some eyebrows were raised when he used a kid to defeat the best Card Professor in America, but hey. If he could do it, why stop him? Besides, it was so nice to let that kid play in his stead, even if it was for publicity.

Then he started the Tournament that would end all. Duelist Kingdom. It would send his game to a new level of popularity, especially since it would have Yuugi Motou, already famous for defeating Kaiba. Entertainment reporters fought for passes, but no one got any.

And somehow, everything went wrong there.

No one was expecting him to lose. No one expected him to be beaten at his own game. It was a sucker's bet, one so obvious that no one even bothered. But it happened.

No one expected him to disappear afterwards. He'd done it before, of course, but there was something different about this time, something no one could name.

No one expected him to turn up dead, his glamour gone with his life. And his publicity team never answered calls, either, despite all the incentives reporters offered.

Ah well. Such was the life of a star, even if they weren't in Hollywood

(0)

The teacher set down his pencil and looked over the class 2-A. It was a good class in general – Mazaki was an excellent student, for instance – but there were…issues.

His eyes fell on Jonouchi, and paused.

Jonouchi Katsuya. Sixteen years old. Blond hair – probably has western heritage. Brown eyes. Near last in class scores. Former – or so he said – gang member. Reputation for fights, bullying, mugging, etc.

This kid was someone to be worried about, and most people were. Hell, most of the other "bad kids" were afraid of what he could do, especially when he worked with Hiroto Honda, his usual partner.

Class hadn't started, but would soon and most people were there to squeeze in some conversation with friends before class. Jonouchi was sitting with his new friends, the ones that supposedly didn't frighten old ladies for fun, laughing and smiling.

The change from what he used to be –angry, violent, anti-social with a vengeance - was striking.

And suspicious.

Perhaps it wasn't kind or right, but one learned to be wary of any of the bad kids suddenly 'seeing the light' and becoming model citizens. Yes, some of them were honest, but the vast majority were simply acting like they had shaped up for the sake of parents or police officers or simply cover. Too many parents got their hopes up, dreaming that maybe now their child wouldn't make them cry, only to cry harder when they found out it was all al lie.

He had been a teacher for a long time, and he had seen it happen too many times.

He looked over the group – why was Mazaki with him? She hated him and Honda…. Ah. She was friends with Yuugi, who had somehow become friends with Jonouchi. The teacher had heard rumors of something with the now-terminally insane Ushio – not that he minded that, Ushio was a menace – and that they were involved. It didn't make much sense, but rumors never did.

Yuugi was a shy child, shy and lonely and hesitant to talk to others. He was probably so glad that Jonounchi was talking to him and not bugging him, so happy he now had friends other than Mazaki, so happy that he would do anything to keep it.

The teacher sighed. That gangster was probably just using the poor kid – taking advantage of a weaker boy to do his dirty work. He wondered for a moment if he should step in, but decided not to. After all, he'd seen this before and knew what would happen. "He's really changed!" "You don't understand anything!" "But he's my Friend!" Etc. It wouldn't do any good, and probably would hurt things, too.

Still. Poor kid.

(0)

That boy was walking past with his friends, and Mr. Karita glared at them until they were out of sight. That boy – Bakura, the new student – was such a punk, and disrespectful, too. He didn't know why the other teachers didn't see it – they always talked about how smart he was, how gentle, all that. They didn't care about the trouble he had in his other schools. They didn't care how many of his friends just happened to end up in comas. They didn't even care how blatantly he disobeyed the dress code, with that hair of his! (Yuugi disobeyed too, but Karita had long since given up on him.)

He thought about insisting the boy cut his hair again, like he should, like he wanted to, but he couldn't. Something in his subconscious wouldn't let him – a fear he couldn't analyze. He just couldn't do it and couldn't say why.

Bakura yelled something to his friends about having forgotten something, and he came back into view. Karita steeled himself to yell at him for is hair, his looks, anything.

The boy passed him, and he opened his mouth. Then Bakura glanced at him, and Karita was frozen.

Death-white hair. Eyes the color of an old bloodstain. A smile that looked friendly, but still let you know that he held your life in his hands and had no qualms about dropping it. A smile he knew too well, a smile he couldn't remember.

And then the boy passed without a word, and Karita was free of…whatever came over him. Shuddering, he turned away and decided to leave the boy alone. It wasn't worth it.

It wasn't fear, really. Just…practicality.

(0)

He watched that new kid, Bakura, get dragged off by adoring girls, and quietly glowered.

Great. He was one of those shojo pretty boys – white hair, white skin, mysterious, shy, girly-looking, all that. "Prince charming" in the flesh.

Girls loved those types. Who knew why.

He looked down at his desk as Bakura got hauled off. He was probably rich, too, with a mansion and a pool, and horses or cats or something but he's still just So Tragic over something and none can know his pain, or something stupid like that.

Blargh.

Guys like that never had to worry about real pain, having to tell a success-obsessed dad that he failed Calculus, or finding out his sister ran off with some druggie, or finding out his sister's dead. He'll never have to deal with the police coming to the house, or friends disappearing, or wondering what he'll eat the next day. Hell, the worst he'll ever deal with is too many girls.

Fuck, it must be nice to have that problem.

The boy stood, slouching and snarling, and left the classroom.

Man. Those white-haired pretty boys had ALL the luck.

(0)

Hanasaki was always a shy boy. Teachers sometimes tried to coax him out of his shell, but he was smart enough and courteous enough and he seemed happy enough, so they eventually stopped and simply let him be.

He kind of wished that they hadn't. He really wasn't that happy and he really did want to get to know more people. But the attention made him uncomfortable and nervous and he never knew what to say except, "No, really, I'm fine, don't worry." Be there wasn't a lot he could do about that, so he just smiled and acted nice and hoped someone would like him.

He always kind of watched Yuugi, another boy in his class who seemed to be the same. Shy, nice, totally invisible. Except that Yuugi had Masaki, and Hanasaki didn't have anyone. Yuugi seemed kind of gloomy, though that stopped after those other two – the really frightening ones – became friends with him. No one was really sure why they were friends – Yuugi was so shy and delicate, and the other so rough…Rumors surely flew, but Hanasaki never heard any of them, except continued muttering that no one ever really knew what happened to Ushio. Hanasaki was curious – how could someone like him end up with friends? – but he was also kind of scared and maybe a little bit jealous, so he didn't really deal with Yuugi.

But then there was Sozoji and his Concert of Death. When Hanasaki got those tickets with orders to sell, it looked hopeless. No one ever went against Sozoji, but no one ever went to concerts if they could avoid it. There was no way he would be able to see those tickets!

It was more desperation than anything that made him try to sell to Yuugi. He felt a mixture of grief and delight when Yuugi showed him his own – he couldn't sell a ticket, but at least he wasn't alone.

Not alone. That had a nice feel to it.

And then, in a move surprising Hanasaki more than anything else, Yuugi took Hanasaki's tickets. He couldn't believe it. No one besides his parents had ever cared enough to try and take suffering from him

Yuugi may have been kind of gloomy, but he was really pretty nice.

But it all went wrong and Hanasaki got beat up, but Yuugi saved the day. Something was different about him then, and Hanasaki wasn't sure what. But whatever it was, he was impressed.

After what happened with Sozoji, Hanasaki wanted to be better, stronger, but he found that his normal self wasn't enough. And that hurt.

But then there was Zombire.

He was strong. He was tough. He was confident.

He was perfect.

Hanasaki was fascinated, entranced. His father, noticing how much his son enjoyed it and maybe a little bit guilty over how much he worked, always got him the latest thing.

One night, Hanasaki decided that he would be Zombire. He could do it. He could be a hero.

…Except that he couldn't. He ended up hurt and got Yuugi hurt and made a mess of everything. But Yuugi saved the day again, and said Hanasaki was so brave, so brave. Hanasaki was never sure why he said that – it couldn't be true, but Yuugi didn't lie.

After that Hanasaki thought for a while, and told his father to stop getting things with Zombire. He had a new idol now.

And Yuugi was better than Zombire, because Yuugi was real.

(0)

He was just a cop. Just a normal, beat cop that could have walked out of an old American movie – if any of them would have dared to have a Japanese star. He was one of a dozen assigned to the death of Gozaburo Kaiba, because even though it was obviously a suicide it was still Gozaburo fucking Kaiba.

There was something unsettling about his heir, this Seto, this boy with a politic-perfect smile and blue eyes that somehow seemed darker than they were. Something off, something _not right_, and the cop really didn't know what. There were rumors that it was not suicide but patricide, and looking at those soulless, depthless eyes and that cold smirk, he could believe it.

Not that he'd say it to the boy's face. He was smarter than that, and the rumors of how KaibaCorp dealt with unwanted people had permeated the underground even before Gozaburo had died.

He was a good cop, and all good cops knew how to read people – that's how they survived and became good cops instead of dead cops. He was good at getting feelings from people – this one's innocent but covering for someone, that one's not connected even though he looks it, this one's nothing to worry about, that one's a threat. Those sorts of things. And all of those instincts, born out of talent and honed out of necessity, were yelling at him to get away from Seto Kaiba as fast as he could and not look back until he was out of blast range.

He had never been that eager to get a case over with before.

(0)

Gozaburo Kaiba really was a good man.

Sure, he created weapons, but everyone used weapons and not just for war. And even the ones that did would get the weapons from somewhere else if they didn't get them from him, so it didn't really matter.

He was just a businessman. And that was hardly a sin.

And it was so generous of him, so kind for him to adopt those boys like he did. He even adopted the brothers, so they wouldn't be separated. It was so sweet.

He took care of those boys, gave them everything. He trained the elder to be his heir – making him a real part of the family. He just wanted the boy to have a career of his own when he was older, that was all. And they always looked so noble, a businessman fighting to raise two boys alone.

And then Seto drove his adopted father to suicide and stole his company, and he turned it into a maker of child's playthings, instead of staying with his dearly departed adopted father's business, or even something respectable. And he didn't visit Gozaburo's grave, either – he didn't even go to the funeral!

_Well. _ Some people don't know how to be grateful.

(0)

When she heard what that slave brat had done, she was incensed. He was just a slave, a beast that only lived for the sake of the Lady's and the Leader's mercy. And he dared to try to take the inheritance of the heir? He dared to try and steal the Pharaoh's memories that the Tombkeepers had kept for years beyond count?

She was never sure why the Leader didn't kill him on the spot. Goodness, she had tried to get them too. It was the only right choice.

Of course, she was never sure why they kept him in the first place. Yes, the Lady was merciful, but was it truly right to take on an outsider as her own child? She had disapproved of that as well, but the Lady only smiled and said that maybe, one day should would understand.

She never did.

The woman – sister to the honored lady, may Anubis judge mercifully on her soul – huffed. She was walking down to where the heir was recovering. She had heard that slave hadn't left his side – she knew it was only because he was waiting for a chance to kill him and become the heir himself. She stormed down to the door and flung it open. The slave – what did they call him? Rishid? – was kneeling by the bed where the Heir laid, both silent. The beast – waiting for a chance to strike! She knew it!

He was silent, he was somber. She stomped up – though she did try to not wake the heir – and spun him around. He stared, shocked – probably horrified he had been caught, the brute!

"Leave him, slave!" She ordered. No point in being nice. He was still, and then he left without a word.

She heard the heir muttering, saying the slave's name in his sleep. Poor thing…Probably afraid for his life. She said prayers over him and held his hand, but he still slept uneasily and muttered.

(0)

Even though Malik had been born small and the birth had killed his mother, all of the other children had known he was special. He was the heir, after all, and he was an honored child. Only a child honored by the Gods would be able to hold the Pharaoh's memories.

There was one child, a little bit younger than him and a little bit smaller, a female cousin of his. She looked up to him so much, always got at close as she could to him. She wasn't allowed too close – he was the heir, after all, and he had to be taught all the old secrets to prepare him for his duty. He couldn't be distracted.

One evening she saw them, Malik and Isis, his sister. They were running through the halls, laughing and trying desperately to catch each other. The girl had to smile – they were so cheerful and wonderful like that. That was how they should be able to stay, happy and laughing and perfect. She watched them for a while, until she was distracted by an adult asking her what she was doing and Malik, obviously distracted as well, careened straight into her.

She gasped slightly as the boy ran into her and knocked her down. He skidded to a stop before he fell over too, and then, panting a bit, offered a hand to help her up.

She blushed a bit, partially because this was Malik, the heir, offering her his hand, and partially because even though she hadn't seen many boys, she could tell he was beautiful. She stared into those violet eyes before she took his hand gratefully and thanked him.

The adult started scolding him, saying that such behavior was unbefitting him and he shouldn't have been running around. He made his apologies and excuses, before walking around a corner. Though once he was around the corner, she could hear him start to run again, apologizing to Isis for taking so long.

A few years later, it was time for the Ceremony that would make Malik the true Heir to the clan, the true holder of the Pharaoh's memories. She was exited for him, everyone was, except for Malik himself it seemed. He was restless, unsettled, though she didn't know why. This was his purpose, his ultimate duty – shouldn't he be as exited as the rest?

Then the Ceremony occurred, and Malik took more time than expected to recover. When he finally emerged from his room, he was different, a bit more somber and a bit colder. But that was befitting an heir, and she didn't worry at all. Malik was blessed by the gods, and he was strong.

But then he went outside once, and when he returned his father was killed – by what no one would say. Then Malik disappeared for forever to the outside, leaving his purpose and his clan and his life, and with him left one of the Sacred Items.

The girl was left numb, crying and wondering what went wrong.

(0)

The Pharaoh barely noticed his servants – what pharaoh would? – but they loved him, served him, and were always there.

The Pharaoh was rushing, ordering, arranging things. The Thief had attacked with a stolen Item, had given his ultimatum. This would be the final battle, everyone knew.

His servants were on hand, following his orders as he gave them and waiting when he didn't. This was their purpose – to serve him however they could, and they were pleased to serve such a noble, sacrificing man. They would serve, and they would remember.

Then he went to fight the thief, and never returned.

In a few days, no one remembered him at all.

(0)

To the priests, the rulers, and those he stole from, the King of Thieves was a rebel, a blasphemer, a monster and threat to the crown.

To at least a few poor kids without any hope, he was a hero.

Everyone heard about him, from lowest, poorest boy to the Pharaoh himself. Even a small boy, forgotten in the undercity of Thebes from the day he was born, knew him. He was there, scrounging though the mud and the dirt for some small thing he could sell- or better, something he could just eat. He was awfully hungry. He was there, oblivious to his surroundings, when he looked up and saw the dark alley he was in had emptied. This wasn't normal – he had picked a more deserted one so he wouldn't be interrupted, but no street was ever really empty. There wasn't room in the city for that.

He glanced around, feeling a chill wind – in the middle of the day, no less! His gaze fell on the entrance to the alley, and suddenly understood why everyone else had left.

There was a man there, strong and tall, with marble-white hair and a coat the colour of blood. His hands were stained the same colour – the boy could see a few bodies behind him, their throats slit and bags stolen. The boy looked, hesitantly, at the man's eyes, and froze.

Mad, pale gray eyes, with a double-barred-cross shaped scar on the left cheek.

The King of Thieves. The swirling shadows were his guards, the ghosts his unruly court.

The boy was frightened, no, terrified – few who stood in the way of this thief lived. So he just tried to get out of the way, to shuffle to the side, out of his attention. But the thief saw him, meeting his eyes, and the boy froze again. The thief stared for a moment, and then asked,

"Who are you?" It was formal language, much more polished than what the boy was used to. He floundered for a moment, and the thief said, seemingly to himself, "No matter. Why are you still here? Didn't you see me coming?"

The boy mumbled, "No, I's looking for something to eat." It could do no good to lie to him, after all.

The thief chuckled for a moment. "Ah, I see. So hungry you didn't notice people being killed around you." He laughed– the boy had never heard a sound quite that chilling before. The man had an aura that froze the soul.

He was still frozen and hardly believed it when the thief came closer and sat down next to him, saying, "So, you stay around here? No home to go to?"

Despite the fear, the boy bristled. "I do too have a home. I stay under the eaves next to the butcher." It wasn't much, but it was a home. And he wouldn't let anyone insult it.

Something in those mad gray eyes softened at this defiant defense of home, and the thief smiled slightly, but not cruelly. "I understand." He said. "I take it back. But still, you can't have much."

The boy shrugged hesitantly, unsure of what to do with this suddenly kinder thief. "I don't. But it's mine."

The thief nodded in understanding, and then said, "Surely there's somewhere else you'd like to be, though. Somewhere you don't have to be hungry." There was an odd tone in his voice – it wasn't wistful, but it was somewhere close.

The boy blinked. "I guess. I mean, it would be nice to be a noble or something, but I can't."

The thief looked at him in surprise. The boy wasn't sure if it was mocking or not. "Why not?"

"Well, nobles are born, you know? Blessed by the gods and stuff like that." The boy explained, kind of confused. Everyone knew that, right?

The thief chuckled disbelievingly. "You actually believe that?" He searched the boy's face for a moment. "Well, what did they do to deserve the god's blessing? Why should it fall on those who never work, instead of on people who struggle every day? That's not fair, is it?"

The boy was silent. He had never even considered these questions, much less had an answer for them. The thief let him think for a moment, and then continued, staring at the boy intently,

"You see, I think that everyone should have the blessing of the gods. Because some of the people who do have it now have done some very cruel things and don't deserve it." There was a bit of madness returning to his gaze, and the boy shivered, wondering if he imagined the flames reflected in the thief's eyes and if he should be running or not. Then the flames died, and the thief stood, chuckling a bit. "Well, I should go. Let you get back to your eating."

The boy only nodded, his mind churning.

The thief looked down at the boy, still chuckling, and grabbed one of the bags on his sash, tossing it to the boy. "Take it. You amuse me." The boy caught it, hardly believing his luck. Just having things given to him was unheard of. "And remember what I said."

"I…I will." The boy said, and he stayed where he was until the thief had left the alley. Then he ran out the opposite direction. No use in getting caught around dead bodies.

(0)

No one really knew where the young Novice Priest came from, and that only added to the fear and wariness that filled all that saw him. He was too skilled, too ready, with the ability of a man far older than he and the blue eyes of a demon.

And the High Priest took too much interest in the boy, though whether it was out of fear of what he could do, or out of an –hah!- affection for the strange boy no one was sure. The general hope was that he was trying to keep an eye on him, though, to make sure he didn't go astray. His power could be deadly in the wrong hands, and it was only wise to make sure that his didn't _become_ the wrong hands. It was only prudent to be wary of the boy.

After all, names had power, names were the basis of a man's nature, and a boy named after Set – the God of Chaos, of War, and of the unmerciful Desert - was one to fear indeed.

(0)

There were flames everywhere, fire and blood and screams. The villagers wouldn't stop yelling. The bloody soldiers cut them all down mercilessly, heedlessly.

One soldier growled to himself as he killed. It really was butchery. He was a new soldier, on his first mission abroad. _They're tomb robbers_, he reminded himself with grit teeth. _Blasphemers against the gods and deserving of death._ But it was harder to remember that when faced with men trying to protect their wives, weeping mothers, and children – children! – and killing them and trying not to listen to them cry. People had always said he was too soft for the guard, but this was the first time he had thought them right. But that didn't matter – he would follow his orders for the glory of his Pharaoh.

The High Priest had some purpose to this, some great plan, but he didn't tell anyone anything except that it involved driving some of the village to the center of town and killing the rest. No one knew why – yes, they were tomb robbers and evil, but a strategist and politician like the Priest would know better to attack on the inside when dealing with an invasion. Couldn't they deal with internal problems after they defeated the Persians? The soldier personally wasn't sure he wanted to know – he smelled magic on the air and the shadows around the center of town too dark, even with the huge fire erected there.

He didn't want to know what that was for. He especially didn't want to know what the gold was for, or why there were so many screams – some of them from soldiers. And he really, really didn't want to know what the blast of magic he had felt a few minutes before had been.

An order called out from the center of the town, to kill all the 'rats' that had been missed and then head back, because they were finished here. So the soldier did, heading back through the smoke and screams to an area near the center of town. He had just been through there, but he would check again. It wasn't like he would find anything, so he searched with half a heart, weary from the killing. It was different from a battle – man against man in total honesty and openness. Here it had been simply…butchery.

But then he heard someone sobbing in the ruins of a group of houses, all half-burned. It was soft, desperate, the sound of someone very young. Curious and a bit sympathetic despite his orders, he followed the sound to a half-collapsed house. He looked into it, and saw a boy sitting in the ruins, weeping.

The boy had the most freakish white hair, and the soldier could see a wound flowing blood under the child's left eye. Poor thing, it'll probably scar that way…if he survives. The sympathy of the soldier was in full swing now, and he was a loss for what to do. If he let the boy go and anyone found out, he could be killed. But if he followed orders, the boy was sure to die.

One part of him said, _But he's a tomb robber!_

The other said, _But he's a __child__!_

He wasn't sure which was right.

The boy suddenly looked up at the soldier in shock, having finally noticed him. His eyes were the palest gray and even the soldier could tell his mind and heart were broken. Not that he blamed him. He would need time to recover from tonight himself.

Decision made, he quickly muttered to the kid,

"Hey, get out of here. I won't tell them I saw you. If anyone else finds you you'll be killed." The boy looked at him for a moment, and then shakily stood. After another moment of staring, the boy turned away and ran through the shadows and flames to the open desert.

Poor thing, the soldier thought. He'll probably die in the desert, but at least he won't die here. Better to leave it to the judgment of the Gods. He turned away, and didn't hear the boy making vows of revenge and pain against the pharaoh who allowed this. If he had, he might have thought twice about letting the boy live.

He called out that the area was all clear, and went to the gathering place with the other soldiers, steadfastly ignoring the gleaming gold items now brandished by the priests.

Years later, when that new recruit wasn't so new, he was guarding the pharaoh's tomb against blasphemous thieves who would steal the sacred gold. He didn't think about the Sacred Items of the Priests, he didn't think about dark magic, and he tried his damnedest not to think about flames and screams and smoke. He refused to remember.

And when a white-haired thief sped in, burning with hate and revenge and power, that guard was one of the first to die.

(postscript)

This is an idea that's been bouncing around in my head for almost as long as I've been a fan of this series. I've always wondered what these people – these very public and often freaking weird people- look like to the normal people in their lives. We as readers know and understand what's going on, but most of the people around them don't.

Also, we're given such a personal view of these people, we – or at least I don't - always remember that most of the people around them don't know or understand them like we do. We know Seto Kaiba the person – who is Seto Kaiba the icon? Things like that. I choose characters that showed the difference between the two, though I tried for equality between characters.


End file.
